Sabina had not yet spoken to her mother, though many times tempted to do so.  Her loyalty proved strong in the time of trial; but the greater the strain on herself, the greater the strain on her love for the man.  She told herself that no such cruel imposition should have been placed upon her; and she could not fail closely to question the need for it.  Why did Raymond demand continued silence even in the face of offences put upon her by her neighbours?  How could he endure to hear that people had been rude to her, and uttered coarse jests in her hearing aimed only at her ear?  Would a man who loved her, as she deserved to be loved, suffer this?  Then fear grew.  With her he was always kind—­kind and considerate in every matter but the vital matter.  Yet there were differences.  The future, in which he had delighted to revel, bored him now, and when she spoke of it, he let the matter drop.  He was on good terms with his brother for the moment, and appeared to be winning an increasing interest in his business to the exclusion of other affairs.  He would become animated on the subject of Sabina’s work, rather than the subject of Sabina.  He stabbed her unconsciously with many little shafts of speech, yet knew not that he was doing so.  He grew more grave and self-controlled in their relations.  Her personal touch began to lose power and waken his answering fire less often.  It was then that she found herself with child, and knowing that despite much to cause concern, Raymond was still himself, she rejoiced, since this fact must terminate his wavering and establish her future.  Here at least was an event beyond his power to evade.  He loved her and had promised to wed her.  He was a man who might be weak, but had never explicitly behaved in a manner to make her tremble for such a situation as the present.  Procrastination ceased to be possible.  What now had happened must demand instant recognition of her rights, and that given, she assured herself the future held no terrors.  Now he must marry her, or contradict his own record as a gentleman and a man of honour.

Yet she told him with a tremor and, until the last moment, could not banish from her heart the shadow of fear.  He had never spoken of this possibility, or taken it into account, and she felt, seeing his silence, that it would be a shock.

The news came to him as they walked from the Mill on a Saturday when the works closed at noon.  He was on his way to Bridport and she went beside him for a mile through the lanes.

For a moment he said nothing, then, seeing the road empty, he put his arms round her and kissed her.

“You clever girl!” he said.